


a sight i can't describe

by sapphirestylan



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-14
Updated: 2019-02-14
Packaged: 2019-10-27 20:22:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17773625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapphirestylan/pseuds/sapphirestylan
Summary: niall finds out he's colorblind.





	a sight i can't describe

**Author's Note:**

> credit to resal (ftstylan) and her tags on [this](http://ftstylan.tumblr.com/tagged/oh+i+forgot+to+rb) post, which inspired this fic; and credit to natalie (lilac_narry) who had the idea of niall seeing his own special version of harry's eyes! and as usual, big thank you to gwen (byesexualniall) for reviewing this and always being so lovely <33
> 
> title from 'seeing blind' by niall horan and maren morris.

The first time it’s brought up is in 2013. They’ve spent the day in the pool, he and Harry, and now he’s stretched out on their hotel bed, neck and shoulders still stinging from the aloe vera Harry slathered on. 

Harry’s rummaging around in his suitcase, looking for something to wear to the party tonight even though it’s ages away. Niall twists his neck to glance at his phone on the bedside table. Well. If ages away is two hours, then yeah, ages. 

“Niall?” Harry asks, tone frantic. “Have you seen my blue shirt?” 

“Gonna have to be more specific, Haz.” 

“The dark blue. Navy blue. I put it in my trunk but I can’t find it  _ anywhere- _ ”

“Haven’t seen it,” Niall sighs, smushing his face into the pillow. “I’ve got a purple one of yours in my bag, though, must have stuffed it there on accident. Could work just as well with whatever you’ve got planned.” 

“Purple?” Harry echoes, voice ticking up an octave. God, he’s really stressed about this, isn’t he. If Niall was a better friend, he’d get up and help look, but as it is, he can’t bring himself to move a single limb. Besides, Harry’ll look stunning in whatever he picks. Could probably wear some neon-green monstrosity and still manage to look fit. 

“Aha!” Harry crows triumphantly, and Niall grins into his pillow. “Found it!” 

“Congrats.” 

“Dunno what you were saying about purple, though.” 

Niall cranes his neck to look back at Harry, and- the very clearly deep purple shirt he’s got fisted in one hand. “Pet,” he hums. “That’s the one I was talking about.” 

“What?” 

“That’s the purple shirt.” 

“What are you- Niall, this is navy.” 

“It’s purple.” 

Harry’s eyebrows inch together. “Navy.” 

“Purple.” 

“ _ Navy _ ,” Harry insists, frowning. 

“ _ Purple,”  _ Niall argues with equal fervor. 

He and Harry hold each other’s gazes for three more hot seconds before Harry turns his frown to the shirt, grumbling  _ whatever.  _ If Niall didn’t know him any better, he’d think he’d drop the subject. He knows him better. 

The next day, Harry informs a very hungover, cranky Niall that the band  _ and  _ the crew all reached the consensus that the shirt was, in fact, navy  _ blue _ . Niall rolls his eyes so hard Louis says it’s a miracle they don’t fall out of his head. 

It happens again on stage one night- Harry’s pointing out someone in the audience, but the girl doesn’t seem to know it’s her, so Niall says, ‘you in the purple vest’ just as Harry says ‘blue shirt’. He and Harry glance at each other, frowning, but don’t say anything more. 

It takes another year for it to come up again. They’ve stopped at a convenience store on their way to the next city, and Niall’s tramping around the hygiene and oral care aisle, looking for  toothbrushes at Harry’s request. Harry’s sick, is the thing- laid up in bed, sore throat and all that, and was too tired to come out of the bus and buy his own toothbrushes. His ‘dying wish’ was that Niall buy him green toothbrushes, and well- who is Niall to deny him his green toothbrushes? 

About ten minutes later, he’s shuffling down the bus towards Harry’s bunk, arms loaded with the toothbrushes, Harry’s tea, and an incredibly oversized bag of M&Ms. 

“Niall?” Harry croaks from his bunk. 

Niall nudges the curtain aside, revealing Harry curled up on his side, a mound of blankets piled on top of his body. “Hey, pet,” he murmurs, setting his things down. “Feeling any better?” 

Harry shakes his head no because he’s on voice rest, sweaty curls splayed every which way over the pillow. Niall reaches over and places the back of his hand against his forehead, frowning at the heat he feels. 

“Well, I got you candy, and tea, and your toothbrushes.” 

“Thanks.” Harry squints down at the pile of items on his bed. “Those are yellow.” 

“You’re not supposed to talk, Haz.” 

“Those are yellow toothbrushes, though,” Harry grumbles. “Not green.” 

Niall takes another look at the toothbrushes- and no, they’re definitely green. Harry’s probably in some kind of feverish haze, and that’s why he can’t see too well. “Whatever. Try and get back to sleep, ‘kay?” 

“They’re  _ yellow, _ ” Harry whispers, closing his eyes. Niall transfers the stuff to his own bunk, and then crawls into Harry’s, drawing up the blankets over them both. 

“You’ll get sick,” Harry whines, but snakes an arm around Niall’s waist anyways, pulling him closer.

Niall wedges his leg in between Harry’s thighs, planting a kiss on his forehead and closing his eyes, because he’s bloody exhausted. “So be it.” 

After that incident, the both of them forget about the color disputes entirely until Harry drags him to some modern art museum in Vienna to spend their day off in. Niall’s bored out of his fucking mind, really- he doesn’t get what the big deal is, staring for hours on end at these weird, indistinguishable paint splatters tacked on the wall. There’s a bunch of pretentious pricks tiptoeing round, looking down at weird little wire shapes through their glasses and whispering under their breath to each other. Harry seems to be having the time of his life though, so he’s resigned to suffering through it silently. 

Harry’s been stood at this particular painting for ages though, so Niall decides he’ll add his own input. 

“Looks like shit.” 

Harry’s head whips around to face him so fast Niall gets some of his hair in his mouth, and he splutters while Harry glares at him. “Don’t be rude, Niall.” 

“Sorry,” he says, barely holding back a smile. “Sorta does, though.” 

Harry rolls his eyes and pushes on to the next one, leaving Niall to trail after. 

This one’s just as shitty, in Niall’s opinion, but he keeps his mouth shut while he and Harry stand side by side staring at a square of dull blue paint. 

“Read this bit, in the news,” Niall starts. “Apparently Claude Monet could only see blue during one part of his life. Cataracts and all that.” 

“So he was colorblind?” Harry arches an eyebrow, piqued. 

“Not exactly,” Niall shakes his head, and he’s about to explain when Harry inhales sharply. He frowns at him, hand flashing out to grip Harry’s elbow in case he’s about to faint or something. “What’s wrong?”

Harry stares at him wide eyed for a heartbeat, and Niall can practically see the gears turning. “Partially, at least,” he breathes inexplicably, eyes flashing behind Niall. “C’mere,” he says- orders, more like, with the way he shoves him along, fingers wrapped tight around his bicep. 

“Harry, what the fuck are you-”

He stops them abruptly in front of another painting that looks similar to the last after shoving past other museum-goers. “What am I supposed to be looking at?” Niall sighs, folding his arms. 

“What colors do you see?” 

Niall squints, pretending to ponder over it. “Hmm. Green. Some more green. And, wait, I think I see…” he leans closer, closer, draws the silence out while Harry waits with bated breath. “...more green.” 

“Exactly,” Harry says, smiling smugly, and Niall stops short, confused- “You’re colorblind.” 

And- he wasn’t expecting that. At all. On the list of things Harry could have said, ‘you’re colorblind’ was very, very low. 

“I’m what now?” Niall says faintly. 

“Colorblind. This is a painting of a- look, it’s supposed to be a sunrise,” Harry says, pointing at the title of it just below. “I don’t think there’d be green on here, Niall.” 

“You did say this was a modern art museum.” 

“That explains why you keep mixing up blue and purple, too,” Harry says excitedly, ignoring him, and all Niall can do is roll his eyes. 

“I really don’t think I’m colorblind, Haz. I can see just fine. I can see every single color of this butt ugly shirt you’re wearing,” he says, pinching the sleeve of Harry’s garishly yellow floral top. “I’m joking,” he adds quickly when he sees the way Harry frowns. “You look wonderful. So wonderful, in fact, that you manage to make this shirt look g-” he never gets the rest of his sentence out, because Harry jabs him in the stomach with his stupid pointy elbow and goes swanning away to the next room. 

It’s on Harry’s insistence that Niall visits an optometrist to get his eyes checked out later that month. And really, he’s not as bothered about the diagnosis as he is about the smug face Harry gets when he does that Niall is, in fact, mildly, partially colorblind.  _ Deuteranomaly,  _ is what the doctor said, specifically. It won’t impede him in his day to day life, unless he takes up painting or birdwatching or something.

Harry’s main concern, though, is about his own eyes. “Wait a minute,” he’d interrupted, leaning closer to Niall. “Does that mean you don’t know my eyes are green?” 

“I said I was partially colorblind, Harry. Means I can still see color, you know.” 

“But, like-” Harry worried over his bottom lip. “Dunno. It’s different for you, right? ‘Cause you can’t see the full spectrum or something.” 

“I guess,” Niall shrugs, lifting one shoulder. They’re sat up against the headboard of the bed in Harry’s hotel room, something mindless blaring on the television while he shoves more pillows behind his back.

Harry seems to chew on that for a little bit, and then he turns to Niall and smiles. “I think that’s pretty cool.” 

“What’s pretty cool?” 

“That you’re the only one who sees my eyes that way. You’ve got your own special version, sort of.” 

Niall turns to face him, hair rustling against the pillows as he does. Harry’s dimples look deep enough to hurt, and Niall follows his urge to lean in and kiss one, just because he can. “I guess so,” he murmurs, and Harry beams.  


End file.
